


Handbags at Dawn

by CurufinweAtarinke



Series: Curufin vs the World [3]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash, Slap slap kiss kiss, Tsunderes, the ship is barely there but consider this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-21
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-08-27 04:22:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16695355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CurufinweAtarinke/pseuds/CurufinweAtarinke
Summary: Turgon is faced with his Great Nemesis at the park.





	Handbags at Dawn

**Author's Note:**

> For those who don’t know the quenya names and cos they aren’t in the tags:
> 
> Turukáno = Turgon  
> Itarillë = Idril  
> Ñolofinwë = Fingolfin

Turukáno sighs in contentment. It is a pleasantly warm day in one of Tirion’s leafy parks. He has managed to find a well-maintained bench, and has a good vantage point to watch Itarillë feed a trio of fat pigeons by the fountain. He turns to his satchel to look over the architectural plans he brought with him to read while his daughter is occupied, but his peace is shattered by a voice.

“Oh, it’s you.”

There is only one person who could impart such disgust with his very existence into three words. Turukáno looks up to see Curufinwë standing next to him, arms crossed and a practically vibrating Tyelperinquar next to him.

“Can I go play with Itarillë, Atar?” Tyelperinquar asks, tugging at Curufinwë’s tunic.

“I don’t know,” Curufinwë says, his eyes never leaving Turukáno’s, “can you?”

Tyelperinquar sighs dramatically. “May I go play with Itarillë?”

Curufinwë acquiesces, and Tyelperinquar goes running off.

“Pedant,” says Turukáno, never one not to take advantage of an opening. Especially with him.

“Tyelpë is old enough for me to correct his poor grammar,” Curufinwë retorts. “If it were up to people like you, he’d still be baby talking. I’m surprised that Itarillë is as well-spoken as she is.”

The rules of engagement between them are very simple and have been hashed out over countless battles since childhood. Children and spouses are off limits - both get along surprisingly well with the other’s child. Aside from that, almost anything goes.

“I see that you could not be bothered to dress well today, Curufinwë,” Turukáno says. “Forge clothes? Honestly, I would be laughed out of court if I wore your regular ‘fashion’.”

Curufinwë does not rise to the bait, and instead smiles. Turukáno hates his smile. It should be a smug shark grin as befits his terrible nature, but instead he has inherited a glowing, dimpled smile that makes it look as though he’s never had a bad thought in his life. Turukáno hates. It.

“Turukáno, you’d be laughed out of court because everyone knows you’ve never done an honest day’s work in your life,” Curufinwë says sweetly. “All you do is direct the real workers and then take credit as the architect.”

Turukáno could kick himself. He walked straight into that one. “It takes a guiding hand to bring such a large scale vision to life. Not that you’d know, how many actual inventions and new designs do you have? All you seem to do is the work your father is too good for.”

Turukáno can tell from the gleam in Curufinwë’s eye and the way his smile has faded a little that he’s scored a major blow there. Curufinwë is by all accounts an incredible smith on a practical and theoretical level, but seems to lack the creative spark that sets his father apart.

“Oh, is that large scale vision responsible for the new monstrosity being erected in the city?” Curufinwë replies, a sharp note entering his formerly breezy tone. “I was commenting to Turco the other day that such a carbuncle on the beautiful face of Tirion could only be your handiwork. Honestly, it’s all the crafters’ guilds can speak of, this new blemish under construction.”

Turukáno grits his teeth, and tells himself that all radical and new architectural styles meet such ridicule before their wider acceptance, and that Curufinwë is just lashing out at a perceived weak spot after Turukáno’s telling blow.

Before he can retort, there is a shriek of laughter from the fountain, and both fathers look over. Tyelperinquar has removed his shoes and is now paddling in the fountain basin, and Itarillë has just splashed him from her seat on the fountain edge. The pigeons appear to have flown off, but the children have other entertainment now. Despite his father’s faults, Turukáno very much appreciates Tyelperinquar and his friendship with Itarillë.

He turns back to Curufinwë who is watching the children play with a fond smile. Round two.

“I’m surprised someone so vitriolic could produce such a lovely child as Tyelperinquar,” Turukáno says.

Curufinwë turns a narrow eyed stare on him and raises an eyebrow. “Really, I could say the same thing about you and Itarillë. Your lady wife seems to take the forefront in raising her, judging from personality alone.” He pauses. “The apple falls far from the tree unlike you and your father.”

Turukáno almost chokes. “Oh, that is incredibly rich, coming from you!” He cannot believe Curufinwë has even dared to go there. “I am not the one who trails after my father like a lost puppy, begging for any scraps of attention he will deign to give me.”

Curufinwë’s cheeks have reddened, whether in embarrassment or rage Turukáno cannot tell. He slaps away the rogue thought that Curufinwë looks rather attractive when blushing.

“Well, there is much to admire about my father,” Curufinwë hisses, all trace of his grin gone. “Unlike yours. Tell me, what has Ñolofinwë ever accomplished, other than to sit in court and whisper poisoned words about my father as he attempts to usurp a throne that he has no right to?”

Turukáno finds himself rising to tower over Curufinwë, grabbing him by his tunic. Curufinwë however remains uncowed. He’s smiling again. Turukáno reminds himself that no matter how tempting it may be, he really should not punch Curufinwë. He may be short for their people, far smaller than Turukáno, but his work in the forge has left him sinewy with muscle. And he fights dirty, always.

A concerned cry from the fountain makes him let go of Curufinwë as though he has been burned. “Is everything alright, Atar?” shouts Itarillë. Tyelperinquar is dripping wet next to her, similarly worried.

Both Curufinwë and Turukáno paste on grins. “Everything is fine, sweetheart!” Turukáno shouts back. “Curufinwë and I were having... a spirited debate.” Next to him, Curufinwë nods. Apparently satisfied with this explanation, Itarillë and Tyelperinquar return to splashing around happily.

Curufinwë sighs, and all the anger seems to escape with it. “I suppose we should stop for now,” he says.

Turukáno moves up on the bench to allow Curufinwë to sit next to him.

“You weren’t here yesterday,” says Curufinwë after a moment, his eyes fixed on their happy children. “I had to make small talk with your wife.”

Turukáno chuckles despite himself. “She came home saying how pleasant you were, and how she can never understand my issues with you.”

Curufinwë shudders delicately. “Ugh, I just can’t be nasty to her, she’s too nice. My reputation will be shot if this continues.”

Turukáno stretches his legs, the joints popping and making Curufinwë cringe. They are like this, the pair of them. They burn both hot and cold in waves, and delight in their razor sharp tongues and biting wit. Turukáno wants to kiss him as much as he wants to hit him, and he often wonders if Curufinwë feels the same. They each provide a sparring partner to the in a war of words, filling a gap that provides stress relief and an outlet for any stewing anger.

“Same time tomorrow?” he asks.

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you like this, check out my tumblr at curufins-smile.tumblr.com


End file.
